10. Nothing Left to Lose

A soft beep. Then another.
The murmur of voices behind a wall.
Cold air on my arms. Plastic against my skin. That hospital smell again — sharp and too clean, like bleach trying to scrub out something it couldn’t reach.

I opened my eyes slowly. Everything was dim, like the lights were turned down low to keep the room quiet — like even the air was trying not to make too much noise.

Maya’s face appeared in the corner of my vision — tired, but alert. Her hair was a little messy, like she’d run her hands through it too many times. She was still wearing the same hoodie she had on earlier, sleeves pushed up, a faint coffee stain near the cuff.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice low and careful.

I swallowed, but my throat was raw. “What… happened?”

“You fainted again,” she said. “Right after the doctor left. They moved you to a different room to monitor everything. You’ve been out for a few hours.”

I tried to sit up, but my body didn’t want to listen. My arms felt like rubber. My legs were numb under the thin blanket. The IV in my wrist tugged gently — a plastic tether I hadn’t noticed before.

Everything ached.
Not just sore — deeper than that. Like my bones were too tired to hold me together.

My mind felt like it was floating above me — not connected. Not present. Just… hovering.

“Did they say anything else?” I asked.

Maya hesitated, her lips pressing into a line. “No. Not yet. They’re just watching your vitals for now. Making sure your body’s stable.”

I nodded, but it didn’t feel like a yes. It just felt automatic. Like my head was moving without permission.

I glanced toward the door — it was slightly ajar, just enough for the light from the hallway to spill in like a crack in the world. Somewhere out there, I could hear a nurse wheeling a cart. A distant phone rang once, then stopped. A voice paged someone to Radiology on the crackly intercom.

“Claire and Jess…?” I asked, voice barely more than breath.

“I didn’t call them back in,” she said gently. “Didn’t think you were ready yet.”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

For a while, neither of us spoke.
The monitor beeped.
The air conditioner kicked on.
Somewhere outside the room, a door opened and closed.

I stared at the ceiling — too white, too smooth, like it had nothing better to offer me.

Then I said it.
The same thought I couldn’t get out of my head.

“I don’t think I’m going to wake up tomorrow and be me again.”

Maya didn’t pretend to have an answer.
She didn’t tell me I was wrong, or that I’d feel better with sleep, or that it would all work out somehow.
She just sat there, solid and quiet. A warm shadow against the buzz of a too-white room.

Then, after a long moment, she said softly, “Maybe… maybe you were always meant to be both.”

I turned my head, just enough to see her through the dim light.

“I mean it,” she added. “Some people are born one way. Some grow into another. But maybe you were always meant to live somewhere in between. Maybe one or both of your parents made that choice — or didn’t understand what they were choosing. And now… now it’s catching up.”

I didn’t answer.

Maya’s voice dropped, almost like she was afraid to say it too loud.
“Maybe they thought keeping it quiet would make it go away. Or maybe they just didn’t know how to explain it. But if your body was meant for both… that’s not a mistake, Riley. It’s just… complicated.”

She paused, then added, even softer, “And maybe that’s why they named you Riley.”

I blinked. “…What?”

“It’s a name that works either way,” she said. “Boy or girl. They could’ve picked anything. But they chose one that wouldn’t have to change. Maybe they wanted to leave you a way to exist in both worlds.”

Outside the room, the hallway noise dimmed. The intercom cut off mid-sentence. Even the monitor seemed to fade into the background.

I lay still, the words circling my chest like slow-moving fog.

Not broken.
Just complicated.

*

There was a soft knock on the door.

Before either of us could answer, it opened partway — slow, hesitant, like the person on the other side was bracing for whatever was waiting inside.

Coach Walker stepped in — hat in hand, literally. His baseball cap, the same navy one he wore every single practice, was clenched tight between his fingers, the bill bent and misshapen from how hard he was gripping it. He didn’t meet my eyes right away. Didn’t even glance fully into the room.

“Hey, kid,” he said, voice low and rough like he’d swallowed gravel on the walk over.

Maya sat up straighter in her chair, suddenly alert. I blinked at him, not quite ready for another visitor. Not ready for him. He looked out of place in the sterile white light of the room — like he belonged under stadium lights, not fluorescents. The collar of his windbreaker was flipped up, like he’d thrown it on in a rush.

Coach shifted awkwardly near the end of the bed, as if his feet weren’t sure whether they were supposed to stay or go. His eyes flicked toward the floor, then the edge of the bed, then finally somewhere just to the left of mine.

“I, uh… heard you were in here. From campus health.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice almost apologetic. “Didn’t feel right not coming by.”

I gave a faint nod. I didn’t know what to say. My throat felt tight again, the air suddenly too thick to pull in fully.

He took a breath, one of those long, heavy ones you take before saying something you don’t want to say.

“I don’t want to make this harder than it already is, Riley. But I need to be upfront.”

Maya tensed beside me, her fingers curling into her jeans, her gaze locked on him.

Coach’s voice softened, but not enough to hide the weight behind it. “We got the medical notice from the nurse and the doctor. And… well, based on everything that’s happening — hormonally, physically — you’re not eligible to stay on the men’s team.”

It hit like a slap, even though I saw it coming. The words still landed with all the weight of a blow to the chest.

“You’re dropping me?” I asked. My voice cracked halfway through, sharp and broken in my own ears.

Coach looked like he hated himself for nodding. “Yeah. I am.”

I felt the sting in my eyes before the tears came. They burned — slow at first, then fast, like a fuse catching flame. I tried to hold them back, tried to sit still, tried to be fine. But it was like trying to stop a flood with a paper towel. My shoulders tightened. My breathing hitched. Every part of me wanted to disappear into the bed, into the floor, into nothing.

Maya reached for my hand again, her fingers gentle and steady. But I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t want her to see the way my face crumpled, the way I couldn’t hold myself together anymore.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered, voice shaking so hard it barely held together. “I didn’t… I didn’t choose this.”

Coach swallowed hard. His eyes dropped to the floor again, and for a moment, he looked a hundred years old. Like he’d aged ten seasons in the past ten minutes. “I know.”

I stared at the ceiling — one of those ugly ceiling tiles with rust-colored water stains in the corner. The kind you start counting when you’re trying not to cry. My heart was pounding again, louder and faster than it should’ve been. I felt like I was crumbling from the inside out, like every part of me was being peeled away. Like I didn’t belong to myself anymore.

“But,” he added, his voice catching, “I talked to the women’s coach. If you want… you can transfer. Try out for the women’s team. It’s your choice.”

That stopped me.

Try out for the women’s team?

The words didn’t even make sense at first. My brain couldn’t hold them. Couldn’t hold anything.

Because immediately, images flashed through my head — the locker rooms, lined with rows of hooks and damp towels and the smell of sweat and old cleats. The stares. The whispers. The way the guys on my old team would talk behind my back — or to my face. The way the women might look at me like I didn’t belong. Like I was trespassing. Like I was wrong no matter where I stood.

I imagined walking into that space and feeling alien in every direction.

Coach must’ve seen my face, because he held up a hand quickly.

“No pressure,” he said, his voice gentler now. “No one’s gonna force you. But the door’s open.”

I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
There weren’t words left for any of this.

He nodded like he understood and quietly backed toward the door, his footsteps soft against the floor tiles. He paused at the threshold, then turned back just once.

“You’re still one of mine, Riley. Don’t forget that.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him with a sound that felt too final — like it sealed something in or locked something out.

And I broke.

There was no warning this time. Just the collapse.

The tears came fast, like they’d been waiting for permission. My whole body shook — chest heaving, breath catching — and I buried my face in my hands, not even caring that Maya was still there. Not even caring that I was crying like a little kid.

Because this wasn’t about soccer anymore.

It was about everything I was losing — piece by piece, minute by minute.
My team. My place. My self.
And the terrifying truth that I didn’t even know what I was becoming.

I sat there shaking, trying to hold onto something — anything — that felt solid.

Maya’s hand was still on my back. Quiet. Warm. Grounding.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

But after a long time — maybe a minute, maybe more — the words came.

They were thin. Dry. Barely more than a breath.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

Maya lifted her head, startled. “What?”

I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, eyes still stinging. My voice wobbled, but it held.

“I’ll try out for the women’s team.”